Hands on Approach
by mossley
Summary: Grissom and Sara deal with a mysterious – and obnoxious – drunk. Unbound Improv Challenge entry. First and last lines are provided. Thanks to Burked for her beta skills. No, I don't normally live in the gutter.


**Hands on Approach  
Summary:** Grissom and Sara deal with a mysterious – and obnoxious – drunk.  
**A/N: ** My response to the Unbound Improv Challenge. First and last lines are provided, with 1,000 words to finish the story. Thanks to Burked for her beta skills.  
**Rating**: This gets a whopping PG!  
**Disclaimer**: Four out of five critics found this to be a piece of gutter-dwelling fluff. If I really owned CSI, I'd find better ways for the Geeks to spend their time.

* * *

"Just what exactly do you think you're doing?" 

"I'm taking your fingerprints, ma'am," Sara answered, leaning away from the drunk's sour breath. It was a futile gesture; the blood-spattered woman leaned forward, making sure she got a full whiff.

"Who said you could do that?"

"If you'll just relax, we'll be done in just a minute."

"I asked you a question," the woman slurred imperiously, trying to pull her hand back. She was too inebriated to succeed, but she managed to smear the last print on the card. "Don't you know who I am?"

"No, I don't. You won't tell us. You don't have any ID. That's why I need to print you," Sara replied tightly, then took a calming breath. It wasn't the drunk's fault that she was having a miserable night.

And for all she knew, this woman was a victim. She had been found wandering the streets in a bloody jacket, but showed no signs of an injury. The woman had a body that suggested she'd once been a dancer, but in her mid-60s, time, gravity and far too much booze had taken its toll.

Sara would have felt sorry for her, except the drunk had a tendency to spit when she talked. Saliva was bad enough to see; wearing it was really making her angry.

"You can't have them!" the drunk literally spat out. "I can't go through life without fingerprints."

Sara sighed.

"Impetuous girl."

"There. Done," Sara said triumphantly, letting out a yelp when the mystery woman suddenly yanked a lock of her hair.

"Give those back! You can't have them!"

The attending officer quickly came over, helping extract her from the drunk's grasp. Sara's fists clinched when she caught sight of Grissom approaching out of the corner of her eye.

It seemed apropos; everything else had gone wrong today. Of course, he'd pick that moment to walk in.

Waking up that evening, she turned on a lamp, only to have the bulb burn out immediately. In the dark, she knocked over her favorite vase, managing to step on a shard. The cut wasn't serious, but every step aggravated the wound.

Her coffee pot decided to pick that day to die. On the way to the lab, she swung by a deli for dinner. Getting to work, she found they had screwed up her order, giving her a very rare roast-beef sandwich. Even the coffee she bought was cold, and the stuff in the lab probably should have been in a biohazard container.

"Let me handle this," Grissom said, resting a hand on her shoulder. Then he smiled. Sympathetically. The only thing keeping him alive was he had enough sense not to be amused by the situation.

Sore, hungry and caffeine-deprived, she faced the drunk-from-hell. If Grissom wanted to deal with her, fine. Holding out her hands, Sara stepped back quickly.

"Hi," Grissom said patiently. "My name is Gil. I work with the crime lab."

"Thank God! That witch stole my fingerprints."

"Well, the thing about fingerprints is you can never really get rid of them. I bet yours are back already."

"Oh! Thank you," the drunk said, lurching forward to wrap her arms around Grissom and planting a sloppy kiss on his face.

Sara snickered, planting an innocent look on her face when he turned to stare at her.

"What's your name?"

"Rochelle La Putain. That's French," she said, giving him a knowing wink.

"Yes, it is," he replied with a mental wince. Grissom doubted the woman knew she was referring to herself as a whore. From the renewed chuckling from behind him, he gathered that Sara also knew French. Well, at least she was laughing. For some reason, Sara had been especially tense all shift.

"My ex-manager gave me the name. He told me he'd make me a big star. Then the bastard left me for a younger woman. A brunette," she said, giving Sara a withering look. "But I was. A star. All the GIs used to come for me. I was a showgirl. Very popular."

"I'm sure you were," he answered diplomatically, pointing to her gaudy, sequined coat. "I'm going to need your jacket."

"Oh, you're one of those types," La Putain said in mild disgust. "Well, it's not your color. No offense, dear, but you must be a terrible queen. No fashion sense. And the beard spoils the look."

"I'm not a …," he stammered, ignoring the open laughter behind him. "Your jacket has blood on it. That's why I need it."

"Well, there's a wine stain on the sleeve, too. Get that out. And be careful with the lace. I don't want it ripped."

"Right." Grissom took the offered clothing and handed it to Sara to be bagged. He didn't bother explaining that he wasn't taking it to the dry cleaners. Considering how drunk the woman was, she probably wouldn't remember the conversation anyway.

Turning around, his jaw dropped when he saw the topless La Putain leering at him.

"Like what you see?" she asked, jiggling for added effect.

"Why don't you get redressed?" Sara suggested. "It gets chilly in here."

"Good idea," Grissom added quickly, standing up and looking for something in his kit to distract him. He couldn't get the image of fleshy pendulums out of his mind.

"You're the shy type, then. Don't worry, honey. I don't bite. Unless you like it."

"So, why don't you tell us what happened to you?" Grissom interjected gruffly.

"I told you. The bastard left me," she slurred, looking at Grissom lewdly. "Do you want to get married?"

Grissom smiled calmly as he faced the drunken woman again. "I think very highly of the institution, but no, I won't be getting married tonight."

"Why not? I know all kinds of things."

"Uhh, I'm sure you do, but it would break my mother's heart if I finally got married, and she wasn't there for the ceremony."

Pouting, La Putain leaned forward. "You can do what you want. You're a big boy."

Grissom and Sara both gasped as La Putain's liver-spotted hand shot out to his crotch and quickly traced down his inner thigh.

"Oh, a very big boy."

"Okay, I think we're done here," Sara said, grabbing the drunk woman's shoulders and pulling her back. "Are we done?"

Grissom didn't meet her eyes, but nodded emphatically as the officer moved to take La Putain to the drunk tank. Clearly, they weren't going to find out what happened to her until she sobered up.

Stepping into the hallway, they met up with Catherine, who smiled at them as she approached. "Hey, guys. You wouldn't believe how hard my case was. You get a big one?"

Grissom and Sara both mumbled incoherent answers before leaving in opposite directions. The blonde shrugged as they disappeared.

"Okay, that was weird."

**The End**


End file.
